


if the dead are watching

by Anonymous



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Child Abuse, Coming Out, Hate Crimes, Homophobia, Hopeful Ending, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Graphic Smut, Non-Linear Narrative, Slurs, Unrequited Love, martin going thru it as always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26124256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Martín lives his whole life keeping a part of himself secret, filled to the brim with fear.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Palermo | Martín Berrote/Original Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64
Collections: Anonymous





	if the dead are watching

**Author's Note:**

> pls look at the tags for the trigger warnings and take care of urself

"Wait," Martín says.

The club they just left is all but vibrating with sound, the music so loud it can be heard even outside, standing on the street.

They are waiting for a cab.

David is too close. His arms are wrapped around Martín, his lips on Martín's neck.

Martín pushes him away gently. His eyes are scanning the street.

Times like this, he almost expects to see his mother. Like she was hiding in that darkened alleyway. He imagines her stepping out of the shadows. He imagines the expression on her face. _Gotcha!_

David chuckles awkwardly. "What's wrong?" David speaks with a heavy accent. He struggles over words that are not basic phrases and Martín can just tell the guy googled best pick-up lines before coming to Argentina.

It's okay. Martín won't need David to speak much tonight anyway.

Martín licks his lips. "Someone will see," he says. Looks around the busy street with meaning.

People are everywhere around them, the city busy. Nobody cares enough to stare at them, but Martín can feel it all the same. Their eyes on him, on him and David, judging silently. It makes the back of his neck itch, the small hairs there standing up.

David blinks at him. "Okay," he says. He puts his hands up in an I surrender gesture.

He is looking at Martín like this is amusing. He has a stupid smile on his face.

Martín bites the inside of his cheek until it goes numb.

In the cab, David tries again. He moves forward and tries to climb into Martín's lap.

Martín barely gets away. He puts his hand on the man's chest, feels the way it moves with each breath.

He throws one look at the cab driver to make sure the guy isn't watching.

"Stop it," he says to David.

David is pretty, with his big eyes, just staring at Martín like that.

"Why?" David asks. He makes a show of looking around. "There is no people here."

Martín throws him a glare.

David slumps in his seat. "Okay, fine," he says. "Jesus Christ."

Martín might not speak English but even he knows what that means.

He rolls his eyes.

Bites the inside of his bottom lip before he makes a decision. He leans closer to David, and tries to tell himself that two straight guys might do this too.

"You're like a child," he whispers. He doesn't want the cabbie to hear. But also, it's nice to watch David react to Martín next to his ear, voice low and silky.

"I should teach you how to be more patient tonight."

David is better at understanding Spanish than speaking it. He has no problem understanding Martín, none at all. His eyes widen, and he shifts in his seat, a blush high on his cheeks.

The man doesn't try to touch Martín again until Martín touches him.

*

Martín can't stop staring at Luis.

Luis shares a lot of classes with Martín. He has dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. When he smiles his eyes squint.

In class, Luis likes to doodle on his notebook. Drum his fingers on the table. He mostly doesn't listen.

Yet he passes every class. So Martín knows Luis is smart.

Luis is one of those people who are friends with everyone. He doesn't really have a fixed group of people he hangs with.

He is friends with the nerds. He is friends with the jocks.

Luis even talks to Martín sometimes.

"Hey," he will say when he passes by Martín in the hall. "Martín from chemistry, right?"

Martín will bite down the urge to say and Art, and Math, and Physics, and PE.

"Yeah," he will say. "That's me."

Luis will ask all the same. Every time he sees Martín. It's like the boy forgets Martín as soon as he looks away from him.

That kind of makes sense, actually. Martín is not one of the students you remember.

It's not like he is one of the losers. He isn't getting bullied because he actually knows how to fight and he will fight back if anyone tries.

He has his friends, his own social circle.

He is just not one of those students all the same. He is a normal student.

With a normal life.

Except for the fact that he can't stop staring at Luis.

In class, he sits at the far back. Instead of listening to the teacher, he puts his elbow on the desk, his head on his fist, and stares.

He watches Luis through the seasons, through different weathers, under different lights, and carves into his memory how Luis looks when painted blue or yellow, when Luis is bored or frustrated, when Luis is tired or angry.

Sometimes, Luis looks over his shoulder. Martín can tell when Luis is about to look. He stares down at his notebook, then.

Luis never manages to actually catch him in the act. Still, Martín feels like it must be obvious.

It must be obvious to everyone else too, right? Walking in the hallways, he sweats, his skin prickling with every innocent glance.

Sometimes people will talk with their friends, and Martín will be so sure that they are talking about him.

They never are. It's not as obvious to anyone else.

Until one day, it is.

Luis and him have PE together.

They share a locker room. Mostly, Martín is in one corner, his back turned to everyone as he gets dressed as quickly as he can, and then run away.

That day, Martín is with his friend. He doesn't go to his corner. He is stupid.

It's all fine. Everything is fine as Martín takes off his t-shirt. Miguel is talking to him. Martín listens.

But then his gaze lands on Miguel, and he isn't listening anymore.

He has never looked before. He couldn't.

It feels dirty, wrong. His cheeks burn, but he can't look away.

He isn't even looking like some guys in his grade looks at some girl's boobs. He is just looking. He just watches the way Luis' muscles work, under his tan skin stretching for miles without an end.

"Hey!" Someone yells suddenly, and Martín jumps.

Miguel backs up towards the lockers. He isn't talking anymore. Martín can't even remember what Miguel was talking about a second ago.

One of Luis' friends, he is staring at Martín, and he looks angry. Martín swallows.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

Luis has turned around now. He looks at Martín too.

Martín tries to imagine how he must look. His face feels cold and clammy. His t-shirt is clutched with a death grip in his hands. His eyes wide with fear.

He doesn't know what to say. "I wasn't staring," he tries to deny. "I zoned out--"

The boy bangs his hand against the lockers. It makes such a loud sound that it's even louder than Martín's heart beating in his own ears.

"Bullshit," the boy says. But when he tries to move forward, there is a hand pushing him back.

"Just leave it, Carlos," Luis says.

He throws Martín a look over his shoulders. His eyes are filled with disgust.

Carlos doesn't let it go. "That faggot was eyefucking you, Luis," he says. He spits. He snarls.

He pushes Luis' hand off his chest.

He turns back to Martín. "I knew there was something off about you," he says. "I fucking knew."

Luis puts his t-shirt on. He runs a hand through his hair.

When he looks at Martín, Martín wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He just wants to disappear.

"If I catch you staring at me," Luis says. "I'll fucking blind you so you can't stare at anyone else again."

Martín's eyes are filled with tears. He remembers to close his gaping mouth only then. There is a lump in his throat, knot in his chest, it's hard to breathe, like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

"Do you understand?"

Martín nods. He nods, because he doesn't know what else to do.

Luis turns around. Him and Carlos are still talking, low, so Martín can't hear.

Miguel is still plastered against the lockers. Martín is still gripping his t-shirt like his life depends on it.

He forces himself to swallow. Blinks several times so the tears go away. Relaxes his fingers.

Everybody in the locker room is still stealing little glances at him. They look at Martín like there is something wrong with him. Like he is dirty.

Martín puts his t-shirt on. He leaves the room with his jaw clenched and his head held high.

Miguel doesn't follow him out. Martín can guess that Miguel will never follow him anywhere again.

The boy is probably still in there, talking about how he should have noticed sooner, fake gagging as he talks about how Martín touched him all the time.

Martín goes into the disabled bathroom, the one nobody uses.

It's dirty, hasn't been cleaned in probably years, but Martín doesn't care, he drops to the ground.

The tears come pouring out.

He pulls his knees close to his chest, buries his head between them, his arms wrapped around himself, like he is trying to hold himself together, and he is, he is, because it feels a lot like he is about to break into a million pieces and go scattering across the room.

He cries until he can't. His chest hurts and his face looks ruined. He jumps over the fence and goes back home, skipping the rest of his classes.

Martín never stares at Luis ever again--he doesn't even look at the boy.

He knows he brought this on himself. He knows there is something wrong with him, he knows he is dirty for the way he still dreams about Luis, and wakes up with shame, has to cry as silently as he can so his mom doesn't hear.

He knows it's a death sentence, who he is.

So, he decides to change for the better.

In Sophomore year, Martín switches schools.

First thing he does is get a girlfriend.

He always makes sure to kiss her in the hallways, where everyone can see.

He gets suspended too many times for fighting people. His new favorite word is faggot.

If someone dares to look at him for more than a few seconds in the locker room, Martín feels his skin crawl with disgust.

He doesn't even have to fake it, really. The anger comes easy to him.

"What are you looking at, faggot?"

They always look away, and never look at him again, after that.

It isn't a life worth living. Martín lives through his life rather than live his life for the first nineteen years of his existence.

In the future it will bother him. In the future, he will look back at every wasted year with regret.

Fifteen year old Martín doesn't care. Fifteen year old Martín doesn't even believe he is going to make it to twenty-one anyway.

And maybe he is right, in the end. That version of Martín doesn't live past 19.

*

As soon as the door opens someone is pulling him inside and close to their chest. Martín smiles.

"Mom," he says. "You're suffocating me!"

His mom laughs. She lets him go, only to take his face in her hands. "My boy," she says. "I missed you so much."

Martín's vision blurs for a second. When he smiles, his lips are trembling. "I missed you too, mom."

His mom has prepared dinner already. Made all of Martín's favorites. She keeps hovering over him like a helicopter and Martín can't deny that he has missed this.

It's been too long, since he last saw his mom. Last year of college, he barely has any time to do anything but study.

When he tells his mom that all he has eaten for the past few weeks is ramen noodles she almost looks like she is about to faint.

Martín doesn't see the need to tell her about the coffee and Redbull mix he makes and downs with some Ritalin.

He isn't trying to kill his mom, after all.

After dinner is done, Martín helps her with the dishes. It brings back good memories, doing the dishes with his mom.

Since Martín's dad is nowhere to be seen, Martín's mom is all he has. And he is all his mom has too.

They take care of each other.

"Now, Martín," she says, handing her one of the plates so he can rinse it. "Tell me about your girlfriend."

Martín feels himself go cold all over. His blood turning to ice in his veins.

Martín has only had one girlfriend in high school. Other than that, he never even mentioned a girl to his mom. Still, the woman asks, with a knowing smile.

"I don't have one, mom," He says. "So I'm afraid I can't tell you much."

"Oh, come on!" She replies, rolling her eyes. "I may be old but I'm not blind, Martín. Not to mention it's been four years, surely there must be a special someone in your life."

Martín swallows. It feels like he is swallowing a stone, with how big the lump in his throat is. "Actually, yeah," he says. Tries to smile. "There's someone."

His mother laughs, delighted. Passes another plate to him. "Go on, tell me more about her!"

Martín doesn't look up from the plate he is rinsing as he speaks. "Him," he says. "It's a him."

His mother drops the plate she is holding. It goes crashing to the ground with a loud noise, the precious porcelain shattering across their feet.

Martín realizes just then how many knives are in the room. But his mom wouldn't? Would she? She wouldn't.

His hands are shaking. He is still rinsing the plate like he is on autopilot.

"What?" His mom asks. Martín turns to look at her. Her voice is icy, and her eyes are cold.

Martín puts the plate down. "I'm gay, mom."

He doesn't see it coming, the slap. He hears it more than he feels it, actually. The sound ringing against his ear.

His mom looks shocked she did that, and when Martín turns his head to her again, rolling his tongue in his mouth, she is crying.

He presses a hand against his cheek on instinct. He chuckles. He doesn't know what's so funny.

"Martín," his mom says. "Tell me you're joking."

"I have a boyfriend," he replies.

A sob breaks free of her chest. She turns around and leaves the room.

Martín follows. "Mom," he starts. He doesn't know what else to say.

"Don't call me that," she hisses.

Martín presses his cold hands to his burning eyes. "Mom, come on."

She is on the couch, crying. Martín takes a step towards her, but he can't take another one. His feet feel frozen.

"Oh, Martín," she says. "My poor boy, why are you doing this to me?"

Martín's mouth is so dry that it feels like he ate sand. He licks his lips. "I'm--I'm not doing anything, mom. This is just who I am--"

She gets up. There is a sudden fury to her, her tears still drying on her cheeks. "I knew I shouldn't have sent you to that city filled with faggots--look what they have done to you!"

Martín feels a lot like screaming. He wants to scream until he can't.

"They didn't change me, I was born this way," he defends. It sounds so cliché. It sounds like a cheesy line from a book. Martín can't believe this is his life. "Nothing has to change, mom, look how we were fine just minutes ago! This doesn't change anything!"

His voice sounds pleading to his own ears. It has no effect on his mom. "I told you not to call me that," she says.

Martín tries to blink away the tears, but they fall down all the same. "What?" He asks. "Mom?"

She wipes the tears off her cheeks. Sniffs. "I'm not your mom anymore."

Martín feels laughter bubble out of his throat. "Just like that?" He asks.

She doesn't answer.

"Just minutes ago you were calling me your beautiful son and now you're saying you're not my mom anymore? That's not how it works," his voice is getting louder with every sentence, his shaking hands pointing at his mom in an accusing way, "you gave birth to me. You brought me to this world. You are my mom whether you want it or not."

She is too calm when she speaks. "I won't have a faggot for a son."

Martín smirks, crosses his arms over his chest, maybe to hug himself, even though it's just a little bit. Tears are still falling down his cheeks, but he barely feels them. "Well, you do."

She shakes her head. "Get out of my house."

Martín clenches his eyes shut and counts to ten. His voice still breaks when he speaks. "No."

Then she is coming towards him, she closes the distance between them in under a second, puts her hands on his chest, and pushes.

Martín almost falls down, just from the shock of it.

"I said get out of my house!" She is screaming. The neighbors must be hearing this for sure. "Get out, get out!"

Her hands are still hitting his chest. Martín grips her wrists to stop her.

"Mom--"

"No," she says. "I'm not your mom."

Martín lets her wrists go. Her hands fall to her sides, limp.

A silence settles over the room. Suddenly they are both calm. Martín wipes the tears off his cheeks. Sniffs.

He clenches his jaw and tries to hold his head high. "If you kick me out right now," he says, "I'm never coming back again."

A lot of people have told Martín how much he looks like his mom over the years. He used to agree with them.

But looking at the woman in front of him, he sees no pieces of himself, nor his mom. The woman in front of him looks like a stranger.

"Leave," she says. "And don't come back."

It's a good thing Martín hasn't unpacked. He takes his bags and he leaves.

He doesn't look back.

Back in Buenos Aires, Pablo takes one look at him before pulling him into a tight hug. Martín buries his head on his chest and inhales, trying to calm himself down with the familiar scent.

"She kicked you out or did you leave on your own?" Pablo asks.

"I think she disowned me," Martín replies. Saying it out loud, it sounds funny to him. He even chuckles.

Pablo holds him tighter. The man is silent for a few seconds. Then, "you're lucky you don't have a dad," he says. "Mine almost killed me."

Martín laughs. Pablo laughs too.

They laugh, because there is nothing else they can do.

This is the life they've chosen to live, this is the card that was given to them at birth.

Martín wishes every day that he could switch. Change for the better.

He can't. The only thing he can do is accept his situation. And laugh about it.

*

There is a guy staring at Martín. Well, not really staring. Just taking little looks from time to time.

And every time he catches Martín staring back, he smiles and looks down, all bashful like.

Martín blames the alcohol for the way he can't stop staring.

He knows he shouldn't. Anyone could see what's going on. Anyone would be able to tell what he is thinking--

The thing is, he is handsome. The stranger.

Very handsome, in fact.

Martín traces the rim of his glass with a finger. Looks up again. To stare. But the man isn't there.

Martín catches the guy’s friend staring at him, then. She smiles.

His heart turns cold and heavy in his chest, like a stone. He is ready to get up and run away, when someone sits next to him.

He almost flinches. When he looks, he sees the stranger.

Even prettier up close. Martín’s face is burning, suddenly.

"Hi," the man says. "Julia told me she would kill me if I didn't talk to you."

Martín blinks. The stranger has a wide smile, all tooth and joy.

"Oh," he breathes out. Licks his lips. "Hi."

It makes the man laugh. "Hi," he says back. Then he is holding out a hand. "I'm Javier."

Martín takes it numbly. Shakes it. "Martín."

Javier's hand lingers. "Martín," he says. Martín likes the way Javier says his name. He knows he shouldn't. "Are you here alone?"

Martín can't stop licking his lips nervously. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do.

This is uncharted territory, and he feels in danger.

It feels like Javier is flirting with him. And Martín doesn't know how to feel about that.

"I'm with my friends," he says. His voice is more stable than how he feels.

"Oh," Javier replies. He is still grinning. He blinks up at Martín. "Can I buy you a drink, then?"

Martín's heart stutters in his chest.

"I'm not--I'm not gay," he replies. Resists the urge to look around to confirm nobody heard.

Javier's grin falters. He leans back a little, and Martín only realizes then that the man was crowding him. He realizes only then that he kind of liked it.

"Sorry," Javier says. Chuckles. "I thought--well, this is awkward."

Martín doesn't know what to say. He is shocked.

He didn't know what he expected. Maybe for Javier to laugh in his face. Say _I'm not gay either, what did you think I was flirting with you, you fag?_

Maybe he expected Javier to laugh and say _I've seen the way you look at me, idiot, you're definitely gay._

Javier just accepts it. And moves on.

"Let me buy you a drink as a friend then?" He offers.

He is one of those people who wants to be friends with everyone.

For a second, Martín is reminded of Luis.

He tries to forget. "Okay," he says. When Javier starts grinning again, Martín finds it easy to smile back. "I'm not going to say no to a free drink."

Him and Javier become friends, somehow. It shouldn't be that surprising, they are both first years, new in Buenos Aires, studying engineering.

But Martín doesn't know how he manages to be friends with someone who is gay.

It makes him anxious, for the first month. The whole time, he is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He is waiting for someone to ask him about his gay friend. Then accuse him of being gay too.

He is waiting for someone to look at him and Javier, and call them faggots, because Javier likes to paint his nails, sometimes, and he is too pretty for a man.

He is just waiting. The whole month.

Nothing happens. Nobody cares that Javier is gay.

Martín knows people care, everywhere around the world. But none of their friends care, not one bit, and isn't that what matters, in the end?

He tries to convince himself that that's all that matters, and nothing else.

He still spends the first month filled to the brim with fear.

On the end of second month Javier kisses him.

Javier kisses him like he is suffocating and his only source of oxygen is Martín's lips. Javier kisses him desperately, sloppily. Javier kisses him like he has been wanting to for a while.

The kiss doesn't last long.

Javier is the one who pulls back.

Martín is frozen where he is sitting. His mouth opens, to say something, anything, but it's like he forgot how to speak.

Javier is looking at him with wide eyes, his whole face red. Javier looks afraid.

"Sorry," Javier says. "I'm sorry."

Martín grabs Javier and presses their lips together again.

Kissing a man is so much more different than kissing a woman.

For once, Martín isn't just thinking about his homework or if he left the stove on or not. It's not just wet and disgusting.

It feels good. It feels electrifying.

When Javier grabs Martín's waist, Martín feels like this is the first time in his life he has felt this way.

This sudden urge inside of him, the want, the desire--he wants to get even closer to Javier, closer until they are pressed together so tight that there isn't an inch of space between them, closer until Martín disappears inside of Javier.

Martín climbs on Javier's lap. Buries his hands into Javier's hair.

When he grinds against Javier and the man groans against his mouth, loud, unashamed, Martín feels like the blood inside his veins have turned into fire, like he can't think about anything else other than how good it all feels.

Javier is the first man Martín has sex with. Javier is the first man that pulls Martín close, while they are both sweaty, wet, panting.

Javier is the first man to kiss Martín, slow and lazy, with after orgasm haze.

"I like you a lot, Martín," Javier says.

Martín shivers inside the man's arms. He grins. "Yeah, I could tell."

When their lips connect again, they are both smiling into the kiss.

They start dating.

Javier breaks up with him not too long after.

Martín doesn't blame him, really.

Martín can't even sit too close to Javier in public without feeling paranoid. He only touches Javier indoors where nobody else can see.

Javier says _it makes me feel like we're doing something dirty._

Martín almost says _aren't we?_

He bites down the words, but it's like Javier can hear them all the same.

He looks sad. He looks away. "I think, maybe, we should break up," he says.

Martín doesn't argue.

Javier wants a boyfriend he will be able to hold hands with in public, kiss without caring about someone seeing.

Martín doesn't blame him, he really doesn't, because--

Because Martín wants that, too, so much that it hurts him whenever he thinks about it.

It's just that, unlike Javier, Martín isn't brave enough to ever hope to find someone like that.

It's just that, unlike Javier, Martín is a coward.

They try to stay friends. It doesn't work out.

Months and months after, Martín misses Javier.

He knows he is doing this to himself, destroying any good thing in his life, he wants to stop, he needs to stop--

He just doesn't know how.

*

"Mom," Martín says. "Our teacher said that when you love someone very much, you get married and be with them forever."

His mom looks up from the dishes. Martín tries to not bite his lip nervously. "But you and dad didn't stay married, did you?"

She puts down the plate. Turns off the water. Then shakes her hands to dry them.

Martín can tell she is about to give him a speech. He looks down at his homework on the table. He hates history anyway.

"Well, sometimes, people get married to the wrong person," she says. She sits down next to him. When she reaches out to caress Martín's hair, Martín giggles. Her hands are wet. "Your dad and I just weren't meant for each other."

Martín picks his pen up to play with it. "Why not?" He asks.

These are questions he has never asked before. Something always held him back. Maybe it's the way his mom just looked so sad, every time Martín brought up his dad. Maybe Martín didn't really want to know.

But now, he just has to ask.

She sighs. "Because we didn't love each other. The person you get married to, you must love them," she says. Martín looks up to find her smiling at him. "Then you will be married forever."

Martín swings his feet. He thinks about getting married in the future. "I think I will get married to a boy," he says. "I hate girls."

His mom stiffens beside him.

"Don't say that," she says. Her voice is suddenly cold and it makes Martín look up with confusion. She is looking at him in a way she never has before. "You will get married to a pretty girl."

Martín should probably just drop it. He knows these things. He knows how this works. He knows what happens when he talks too much. Still, he speaks. "No girl is pretty," he says. "I like boys better."

"Martín," she starts. The way she says his name, it makes Martín shiver. "Two boys can't get married."

Martín frowns. "Why not?"

"Because it's the biggest sin ever. Boys aren't supposed to love each other." She gets up. "One day, you will understand. And you will get married to a girl."

Martín should let her walk away, but he can't. "I will never get married, then," he says. "I hate girls."

She puts her hand on her forehead, and Martín feels himself go cold all over. "You're giving me a headache," she says. The magic words. Martín feels tears burn his eyes.

"Sorry, mommy," he says. He is frozen on his chair. He doesn't know what else to say. "I'm sorry."

She rubs her eyes. Opens them. When she looks at Martín, she looks different. "If you never get married, I will never forgive you," she says. "You understand? You will get married to a beautiful girl or I will never forgive you, Martín."

Martín nods. He nods so fast it makes him dizzy. "I will--I will get married to the prettiest girl, mom," he says.

He thinks maybe when the time comes, he can marry a girl just to make his mom happy. Even though girls are ugly and annoying.

He just doesn't want his mom to be mad.

"Get up," she says.

Martín grips his chair. "Mom," he whines.

"Martín, get up," she hisses. Martín doesn't like it when his mom is like this. He knows it's his fault for talking too much. He knows he should just shut up and never talk again, because he keeps giving mom headaches and when mom gets headaches, she isn't nice, but he just doesn't know how to shut up sometimes--

He gets up. He remembers the rules. The longer he drags this out, the more he resists, the worse his punishment will be.

He follows her to the little closet under the stairs with shaking legs and burning eyes. He doesn't cry. Crying only makes her angrier.

"You will never say that again, to anyone," she says. "It's the biggest sin, Martín. Do you understand?"

He nods. He nods and he nods. "I do, mommy. I do. I won't say it again. I won't even think it!"

His mom looks at him. "I don't think you do," she says. She opens the closet door.

Martín stays in there for a few hours.

The whole time, he is thinking about how he should get married as soon as possible. Then, he will have his own house and his own rules.

He will miss mom. But he will also never have to go into the closet ever again. And he really hates going into the closet.

He will get married to the prettiest girl ever, and then he will leave, and he will never come back.

(On his wedding day, Martín thinks about that terrified ten year old boy, swallowed in the darkness of the closet, trying his hardest not to cry.

He thinks about his mom. Almost offers a one finger salute to the sky.

Hope you turn in your grave, he thinks.

He doesn’t feel bad about it, like he always used to.)

*

"Martín," Andrés says. "Is everything alright?"

Martín puts the phone down on the table gently. He opens his mouth. He doesn't know what to say so he just licks his lips.

"Martín?" Andrés asks again.

Martín likes Andrés' voice. It's not surprising. Martín likes a lot of things about Andrés.

It's been three months since he met the man, yet Martín followed Andrés to Berlin, and there is a reason for that.

Andrés doesn't know the reason. If Martín can help it, he never will.

The thing is, Andrés is comfortable around Martín. He isn't afraid to touch Martín. He touches Martín a lot, actually.

When he catches Martín staring, he isn't disgusted or weirded out.

The one time they went swimming, Andrés took his clothes off, without a care about Martín looking.

"Let's skinny dip," Andrés even said. Martín refused.

The thing is, if Martín tells Andrés now, the man will look back on all of those things.

He will regret everything. Feel betrayed. Disgusted.

He will be angry at Martín for lying for this long.

Martín never plans on telling Andrés. He never plans on telling anyone, really. Almost thirty years he spent in the closet. He can spend another ten or twenty.

Because it's been three months but it took just three minutes for Martín to fall in love with Andrés. Because Martín can't handle losing Andrés. Because Martín will lose Andrés, if he tells the truth.

"My mom," he says. Clears his throat. "She passed away."

When he finally looks up from the table, Andrés is looking at him with his eyes big, brown. They almost look like honey, from the morning sun hitting them through the windows.

"Were you two close?" Andrés asks.

Martín thinks about it. His mom was not perfect. He can remember countless night he laid in his bed, terrified to go and get a glass of water. He remembers countless times he screamed and begged, banging his fists against the closet door, convinced he is going to die in there.

But he also remembers her finally opening the door. The way she would pull Martín to her chest. How she would smell like home. How weak Martín would be. How solid she would feel. How she would caress his hair. Wipe away his tears. "My boy," she would say. "My beautiful boy."

She would apologize every time. Martín would apologize too. They would apologize every time and then go do the same thing next week. Rinse and repeat.

He thinks about it, and his vision goes blurry for a second, before he blinks the tears away. "We used to be," he says.

Andrés is silent for a second. "I imagine you will want to attend the funeral," he says.

Martín blames it on the sudden shock of his mom's death, the vulnerability that seeps into his voice when he speaks, the way he laughs, hollow and weak. "They don't want me there," he says. "She told them that she doesn't want me there. My cousin, he--he wanted to let me know, anyway. He said I shouldn't try to attend the funeral, though. For my own safety--"

He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, buries his hands in hair. He doesn't want to cry. Not in front of Andrés. Not in front anyone, really.

Martín didn't cry when his mom told him to leave and never come back. It makes no sense that he would cry now.

After all, didn't he lose his mom years ago anyway? Is this really a new loss for him?

But the thing is--

The thing is, Martín thought, maybe one day, she would ask him to come back.

That's always been their dynamic. She would lock Martín in the closet for hours or sometimes for a day. But she would always hug him tight after she opened the door.

She kicked Martín out. But Martín had hope that she would welcome him with open arms again, after he served his punishment.

The thing is, nothing is possible now. She died. She died, and Martín will never feel her forgiveness ever again.

She will never hug him tight enough to hurt, to let him know that it's okay, now.

His shoulders are shaking, he realizes. He is shaking all over, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Martín wipes at his eyes. For some reason, he almost apologizes. He decides against it. "Fuck," he says. His cheeks are wet. There is a lump in his throat.

"It's okay, Martín," Andrés says. Like he can read Martín's mind.

Martín has to look up, just a little bit, to meet Andrés' gaze, because Andrés has gotten closer to him while he had his eyes closed.

Andrés looks even more beautiful like this. He always looks beautiful to Martín, but up close, he feels more tangible, like something Martín could actually have one day.

It's a dangerous thought. This is dangerous territory.

Martín looks at Andrés. Andrés looks at him.

Time feels frozen for just a minute. Then, Martín takes a step back.

"I want to get drunk," he says. Of course, Andrés doesn't approve. Drinking away your problems seems stupid to him.

He still drinks along with Martín.

Martín drinks until he can't even remember his own name. He wakes up the next morning with his mouth dry and his head pounding.

He wakes up the next morning feeling emptier. For a while, he wakes up every morning, feeling emptier and emptier.

*

Martín is being followed. He knows he is being followed. He just doesn't know what to do.

The hour is late. The pavement is wet with rain, and he imagines himself trying to run, slipping and falling.

His heart is beating inside his ears. It's so loud that it makes it impossible to think.

He has been drinking too. Maybe too much.

Then, he decided it would be fun to walk, instead of taking a cab. Just a little walk to clear his head.

Now, he is in a deserted street, and the guys behind him aren't even that discreet about it. They keep talking between themselves. Loud and unashamed, like they want Martín to hear.

Martín hears, alright. He hears a lot of slurs and violent threats.

He looks around, to see any building he could run into, take shelter in, when suddenly, he hears feet hitting the ground angrily behind him.

They are running, now.

Martín starts running as well.

He runs like his life depends on it. And maybe it does.

He has been careful. He's been careful his whole life. He tries to think what he did today that set them off.

Was it that obvious, even with Martín doing everything to hide it? Does he have faggot written on his forehead?

He runs like his life depends on it.

He is imagining the phone call his mom will get. He imagines her dropping the phone, dropping to the floor, dropping down and down, hands pressed to her open mouth.

He imagines the headline on the newspaper. Just another hate crime. Just another gay man murdered. Just another statistic.

He imagines it so much that when someone slams into him from behind, tackling him to the ground, it almost feels peaceful.

Martín goes crashing to the ground. He tries to put his hands out but he hits the ground violently all the same. He hits his head. He doesn't even feel the pain for a second. Just hears the awful, crunchy sound flesh makes when it meets pavement.

It feels like he has accepted his fate. Doesn't mean he doesn't try to fight back. He tries.

He doesn't want to be just another headline, just another queer people will point at to raise awareness, only to be forgotten days after.

He doesn't want his mom to get that phone call. He doesn't want her to think back, to all the times she felt vaguely suspicious that there was something wrong with his boy. He doesn't want her to realize the problem that was staring at her for years now, after Martín's death, tainting her memory of him.

The thing is, Martín just doesn't want to die. Not like this. Not at all.

In the end, they don't kill him.

But when he wakes up in the hospital, his mom asleep on the chair beside the bed, every part of his body aching a different tune of pain, he thinks twice, if it really is worth living a life like this.

If this is even living at all.

He thinks twice, thrice, he thinks about it everyday for a long, long time.

He doesn't find the answer for years.

*

Every time Martín returns 'home' after a night out, he goes tiptoeing to his room, careful not to wake Andrés.

Martín never spends the night somewhere else. He never brings his man home. He never lets them leave a mark or anything like that.

Still, Andrés must know. The man isn't stupid.

Still, Martín likes to think Andrés has no idea.

That particular day, it's been a year since his mom passed away.

Martín doesn't get too drunk. Just a little tipsy. He lets a guy fuck him so hard that it feels real, it feels meaningful, the way the bed bangs against the wall, the way Martín's heart beats inside his chest.

When he comes back home, he expects Andrés to be asleep.

He isn't.

Martín feels ambushed. He feels like they had an unspoken agreement. They both knew what Martín was doing, but they never acknowledged it.

He knows how he must look. His hair is ruined. He still feels flushed, sweaty. He probably smells like sex.

When he sees Andrés, he almost puts his shirt back inside his pants again, but then realizes how stupid that would be.

Andrés has already seen what he needs to see to figure out just what Martín was doing out. Not like he needed the visual evidence to figure it out anyway.

"Andrés," Martín breathes out, in surprise. His voice is broken and hoarse. He can't raise it without hurting his throat.

"Looks like you had a fun night," Andrés says. He raises his eyebrows. Ever since Martín entered the house, trying to make as little noise as possible, Andrés allows himself to look at Martín somewhere else other than his face. He runs his eyes up and down Martín, once, twice, before his gaze settles on Martín's face again.

Martín feels even more flushed, somehow. His whole face is burning. He tries a smirk. It falls short. Feels more like a grimace. "Sure," he says.

The thing is, Martín didn't really have fun. It's just something he does, to get this poison out of himself.

And sometimes, he feels so lonely, especially at night, he has to wrap his arms around himself to stop his shivering, run his hands up and down his arms, imagine someone else doing it.

And sometimes, Martín gets so lonely that it hurts.

It feels nice, to be touched, to be held, even if it's only during sex, or only during those precious seconds after sex, where everything is hazy, and you feel satisfied, for a few seconds, you forget each and every one of your worries.

"What are you doing up?" He asks. Realizes he is still standing by the door like an idiot. Moves towards the kitchen just to have something to do. "It's late."

"I was waiting for you," Andrés says.

Martín has to suppress a shiver. He walks towards the fridge, welcomes the cold that hits his face as he opens the door.

He takes out the milk. In the doorway, Andrés is looking at him.

Sometimes, Martín hates the way Andrés looks at him. It feels like the man can see everything. Martín hates it, he doesn't want Andrés to see anything.

"You don't look well," Andrés says. Martín drinks milk straight from the bottle, until his throat feels a little less like sandpaper.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Andrés just looks at him. Andrés just keeps looking at him.

"I am." He puts the milk back in the fridge. "Well."

He crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn't know why he feels this way, now. He doesn't know why he feels so disgusting and dirty. Why his skin feels itchy all over.

It's something about the way Andrés looks at him. Martín feels like the man must know.

Andrés must know. That’s what’s going on.

He tries not to think about it.

"I'll prepare you a bath," Andrés says. "You stink."

After a year now, things between them have changed. Not Martín's feelings. He still feels the same.

But now, he can tell Andrés considers him a close friend. He can tell Andrés cares about him, in some way or another.

It's strange. Looking at Andrés, you might think he would never be the type to take care of someone.

But Andrés had a very sick brother, once upon a time. Andrés is used to taking care of people. Andrés takes care of Martín all the time.

Martín stands in the kitchen, tries to ground himself, for a while.

Andrés cares about Martín.

Martín is thinking about how many people have stopped caring after they found out the truth about him.

He walks to the bathroom. His hands feel cold and numb.

Andrés has a huge bathtub. More like a Jacuzzi. He is kneeling beside it, one hand hovering over the bubbly water, fingertips dipped inside to test the temperature. His hair has curled at the ends, just a little. There's a certain expression on his face that makes Martín's heart clench with love.

Andrés looks ethereal. Martín has to look away, like looking at the sun. It's beautiful, but if you look for too long, you end up with permanent damage.

Andrés gets up after a few seconds. Shakes his hand to dry it.

Martín is determinedly looking at a spot right behind Andrés' left shoulder. It makes Andrés look blurry.

The blurry image of Andrés starts walking towards him. Martín has to take a shaky breath and clench his jaw.

Andrés walks, until he is standing right in front of Martín. He is simply too close.

Martín feels like he is about to fall down and never get up again.

It's been a fucking year. He should be used to it. He should be used to all of this. He can't stop thinking about how disappointed she must be, that her little boy went out to get fucked by a guy on the anniversary of her death.

"Martín," Andrés says. His voice is low. It makes the little hairs at the back of Martín's neck stand up. "Relax."

Andrés reaches forward with the intention of unbuttoning Martín's barely buttoned shirt.

Martín's hand flies up on instinct, grabbing Andrés' wrist. His eyes finally find Andrés', and the man is looking at him with a curious expression.

It makes Martín mad, almost. How Andrés always looks so in control. But one touch too close to Martín's neck, one step too close to his personal bubble, and Martín is ready to fall to his knees for Andrés.

"What are you doing?" Martín asks. Like it's not obvious.

What he means is, why are you doing this? Why are you always doing this to me, Andrés?

Andrés raises his eyebrows. He looks amused. "I'm helping you take your shirt off," he says. "So you can take a bath."

Andrés just keeps looking at Martín until Martín relaxes his grip. Until his hand drops limply to his side, like he forgot about the limb's existence.

Martín wonders if Andrés can feel his heart beating wildly inside his chest. If not that, then surely Andrés must be able to feel the way Martín is breathing, shallow and fast. Panicked like a cornered animal, the prey, and Andrés is the predator, getting closer and closer to the climax of the story, Martín's tragic end, with every button he opens gently, with the utmost care, like he is doing something so much more delicate than just unbuttoning Martín's shirt.

When he pops open the last button, Martín takes a deep breath. He doesn't care about Andrés hearing it. He just desperately needs oxygen.

Andrés looks at him expectantly, and Martín gets his arms out of the shirt. Let's it drop from his shoulders to the floor.

It feels like they have been standing there, Andrés taking Martín's shirt off for years. He knows it must have been only seconds. But time feels slower. Every little thing Andrés does making Martín's head spin.

"Are you going to help me take my pants off too?" Martín asks. It's supposed to make Andrés back off. It's supposed to make Andrés leave, so Martín can finally breathe again.

That doesn't happen. Andrés just smirks. "If you want me to," he says. And Martín knows he means it.

He imagines it, for just a second. Andrés unzipping his pants. With that delicacy he showed to Martín's shirt buttons. He imagines Andrés popping the button open. Gripping the pants, and lowering them down his legs, going down with them until he is on his knees--

Martín takes a step back. He takes a step back before he can do something stupid because he wants and he wants so much that it feels like it would be impossible to deny himself, he feels like he has to taste Andrés' lips at least once, before he dies, so he can reach Nirvana--

"The water," he says. Clears his throat. "It must be getting cold."

Andrés smirks. "Sure you'll be able to take your pants off yourself?"

Martín has an idea then.

It would make sense, since it’s obvious that Andrés knows now, it would make sense for him to want Martín to crack. To show his true colors.

This is just a game of chicken, to see who breaks first, and Martín knows he has to win.

He clenches his jaw. "Pretty sure I can," he says. His voice comes out just a little bit angry, though he tries to swallow it.

Andrés' smirk falters just a little bit.

He walks past Martín, and his hand brushes Martín's naked skin, barely there, feather light.

Martín can't suppress his shiver. He knows Andrés is smirking his smug smirk as the man gets out.

He exhales a shaky breath. When his hands go to his belt, he realizes he is hard.

It almost makes him laugh. Maybe he has a humiliation kink. He doesn't know what's wrong with him.

He gets undressed, and into the water as fast as he can. He can't deny that it's relaxing.

Laying his head back, he stretches his legs, and resists against submerging himself completely until he comes close to drowning.

He doesn't know why he feels this way.

The whole day has been like shit.

He doesn't know what's so different from yesterday. His mom was dead yesterday too.

Somehow, it hurts more today. Somehow, it hurts a lot.

He raises his arms, cold air hitting his wet skin, and rubs at his eyes. He rubs at them until his vision gets dizzy, black spots in front of his eyes.

The door opens.

Martín almost flinches, his arms falling to his naked chest with the intention of hiding it. He doesn't know why he does that. Not like Andrés hasn't seen him shirtless just minutes ago.

The water is soapy enough to hide everything underneath it. Martín swallows.

Andrés puts the clothes in his hands on the counter. He grins at Martín. "Don't fall asleep in there," he says.

Martín almost flips him the bird.

"Jesus," he says instead. "I won't."

He just wants Andrés to leave. He just wants Andrés to stop doing what it is he is doing.

Torturing Martín.

"You look tense," Andrés observes. "Do you want a massage?"

Martín closes his eyes. Runs his wet hand through his hair, making it stand up, spiky. "Andrés," he says. "What are you doing?"

They both know the answer. Maybe Martín just needs Andrés to say it out loud.

The thing is, normally Martín can put up with Andrés no problem. The man has always been too touchy. He doesn't know the concept of personal space. He never knocks before entering Martín's room. He always makes innuendos that almost have Martín blushing, pushing it down to smirk instead, so he doesn't show his hand.

But today, Andrés should know better. Today, Martín isn't in the mood to play.

"What am I doing?" Andrés asks. "Offering you a massage?"

Martín sighs. He moves his hands under the water. Watches the bubbles move with him. "I don't want a massage," he says.

I just want you to leave me alone, he almost says.

Andrés puts his hands up. "That's all you needed to say," Andrés says.

He leaves once again. Martín stares at the empty space Andrés was occupying just a second ago. Forces himself to swallow.

He scoots over in the tub, until he can lay down, and his whole body is in the water.

The water is too soapy for him to open his eyes. But he feels like his eyes are open anyway, under the water, with every sound from the outside muffled, he can see Andrés.

He tries not to think about how easy it would be to just give in. He tries not to think about how easy it feels like it would be to give in, everyday.

Martín can push through it, he knows. If he wants Andrés, there are things he has to put up with. No prize is for free, after all, and Andrés is definitely a prize for Martín.

It's just that today, it seems harder than ever. It's just that today, Martín feels like his heart is on his sleeve, in his mouth, laying on the ground for Andrés to step on.

He sits up again, some of the water sloshing over the edge of the tub with the sudden movement. He gasps for a much needed breath. Runs his hands through his hair, pushing it back. Rubs them over his face to get rid of the water sticking to his eyelashes.

When he opens his eyes again, he almost expects to see Andrés in the room. He doesn't.

With only Martín in the tub, the room is almost empty.

He gets up, dries himself with the towels Andrés left for him.

Puts on the clothes Andrés picked out. Sweatpants and a t-shirt Martín doesn't recognize.

Underwear too, of course. Martín almost blushes at the thought of Andrés going through his underwear drawer, like a teenager, before he realizes how stupid he is being.

Before he leaves, he wipes the fog from the mirror. Looks himself right in the eyes.

He tries to tell himself, pull it together. He tries to tell himself, you can do this. He tries to tell himself, you've been playing this game of chicken for years.

He doesn't say anything. Just stares at his eyes until he feels strangely ashamed. Until he has to look away.

He finds Andrés in the makeshift office they share. The man is sitting on the couch, sketching something. Martín feels strange, standing at the doorway.

Andrés looks up at him. Martín tries to think about what Martín would do. Like he isn't Martín.

He doesn't feel like Martín in that moment.

"Do you know why my mom didn't want me at her funeral?"

It takes him a second to realize that it was him that asked that question. He doesn't know what he is doing. The path he is going down is dangerous.

But at the same time, he thinks, Andrés must know already. Of course he does. Everybody can tell, if not at first glance, than a few minutes later.

It's in the way Martín sits. The way he holds himself. The way he speaks. The way he couldn't stop looking at that one bartender in Barcelona, before he realized Andrés was looking at him look at the bartender.

Andrés must know already. Martín can tell, he could tell as soon as he came back to their house to find Andrés waiting for him.

It's the way Andrés looked at him. It's the way Andrés smirked, knowing he caught Martín red-handed, walking into his own house like a thief, or a guilty child.

"No," Andrés says. He puts the sketchbook down. "Tell me."

Martín walks towards the couch. Andrés watches him silently.

When Martín sits down, he feels strangely peaceful. He feels like he did, all those years ago, locked in the closet, realizing that no matter how much he cries, screams, begs, there is no getting out.

Martín knows how this story is going to end. It makes him feel strangely peaceful, even though he doesn't like the ending.

It's the knowing. Martín would rather know something dreadful than not know maybe a happy ending.

His hair is still wet, when he runs his fingers through it. He is tired, sleepy.

He blinks, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling light. He stares like he has never seen this room before.

They both know he is stalling. Andrés doesn't say anything about it.

"We were always close," Martín says. He refuses to look at Andrés. "Without a dad, I was all she had. And she was all I had too. For years."

When he swallows, there is a lump in his throat that he ignores. "Then, I moved to Buenos Aires, for college." He chuckles. It's not funny. "The city of gay clubs and whores standing at the darkest parts of the street."

Buenos Aires. The city he met Andrés in.

He finally turns to look at Andrés. The man has his arm thrown over the couch, resting his head on it. He looks younger, somehow. With that open expression on his face.

He looks like someone Martín could confess anything to. Like a priest.

But Andrés is too handsome to ever be a priest, for Martín. It would be sinful, confessing all his dirty deeds to the man. It feels sinful, just looking at him.

"She tried to blame it on the city," he says. He has to look away. He can't look at Andrés as he says it. "Said the city turned me gay."

It feels weird saying out loud. Martín hasn't ever once 'come out' to anyone except his mom. And he remembers very well how that turned out.

He crosses his arms over his chest. Rolls his tongue around his mouth. Andrés is silent.

Andrés is too silent. Martín can't handle the quiet, it makes him feel itchy.

"You don't have to pretend you couldn't tell," he says. His voice is bitter and hollow. He still chuckles, like it's funny. "I know it's obvious to see for anyone with eyes."

He hears Andrés inhale. The whole room is so quiet that Martín can hear Andrés breathe, hear his heart beating wildly inside his chest.

"Thank you for telling me anyway," Andrés says.

It makes Martín laugh, for some reason. He laughs before he forces himself to stop. He turns his head to look at Andrés again.

Their faces are close like this. The ten inches between their lips fatal territory.

"Is that all you're going to say?" Martín asks. He forces himself to look Andrés in the eyes only, doesn't let his gaze wander because he knows where it would land.

Andrés' eyes are always so beautiful. No matter how dark, how light they are. No matter how angry or happy they look.

Martín wants to get lost in them, float in the darkness of Andrés' pupils, but he knows he has no right.

Like he has no right to lick his dry lips.

Like he has no right to blush when Andrés' eyes fall down to his mouth, for just a second.

"It's not as obvious as you think, Martín," Andrés says then. Martín feels the way the silence breaks like it's a physical thing. "For anyone who doesn't look too closely."

Martín inhales. His lungs are burning all the same. Like he isn't getting enough oxygen. It's hard to breathe, with Andrés so close to him.

Martín is just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He is waiting for Andrés to get up and shake his hands like he is shaking Martín off of them. He is waiting for Andrés to look at him with a grimace, tell him to pack his bags and leave.

None of that happens.

Andrés gets up. He looks at Martín expectantly until he gets up too. "You look tired," Andrés says. "Go to sleep, Martín."

Martín doesn't know what to say to that.

"Just like that?" He asks. More like the words force themselves out of him.

Andrés smiles. It's not one of his grins or smirks. And god, Martín loves his grins or smirks. But the smile, it's rare. Martín feels blinded, breathless, every time Andrés smiles at him.

"What else did you expect?" Andrés asks. They both know the answer. "This doesn't change anything, Martín."

Martín remembers saying that to his mom. He imagines his mom in her grave. He imagines her in heaven looking down at him with disappointment.

But more frequently, Martín finds himself imagining his mom in hell, for reasons he doesn't know, for the sins he thinks his mom has committed, deep down in his subconscious, things he tries not to think about.

"Right," he says. His lips stretch into an uneasy smile. "Good night, Andrés."

Martín lays awake the whole night, of course.

He can't stop thinking. But at the same time, he isn't thinking about anything.

His brain is filled with jumbled thoughts of Andrés, mom, heaven and hell, love and war.

In the morning, he is so tired that it feels like he might fall down any second.

He goes to the kitchen.

Right by the counter: Andrés.

He has a cup of coffee in his hand, the smoke hitting his face because of the way he holds his arm flush to his chest, giving his cheeks a delicious blush.

Andrés looks sleep ruffled, and easy to stare at, solid to touch. He looks tangible.

When he blinks at Martín, he does it lazily. When he smiles, it's even lazier.

"There's coffee in the pot," Andrés says.

Martín finds it easy to smile fondly at the way the man's voice is still hoarse and deep. He must have woken up just minutes ago, then.

Martín is so tired, but he thinks maybe, it's nothing a good cup of coffee can't fix. And Andrés always makes the best coffee.

With the sunlight pouring through the window in waves, for just a little while, Martín can believe that nothing has changed.

He pours himself a cup of coffee.

Yesterday was a mess. But today is lighter.

And tomorrow is always a brand new day.

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me if i forgot to tag smth ? and hope u enjoyed lol


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